


The Secrets of Summerisle

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Wicker Man (1973)
Genre: Crack, F/F, F/M, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Wicker Man AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis is Sgt. Neil Howie from the 1973 film "The Wicker Man," who goes to remote Summerisle to investigate the disappearance of the girl Jeyne Poole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corn Rigs and Barley Rigs

**Author's Note:**

> Neil Howie pictured [ here](https://www.avforums.com/styles/avf/editorial/products/bb191416d76b889fee9ff04b842154b1_0.jpg)
> 
> You can follow this story even if you haven't seen the movie, but if you have seen it, you'll probably know that I've left out huge swaths of plot in service of the shipping. What else is new?!

There was nothing quite so refreshing, Stannis Baratheon thought in satisfaction, as a Sunday service on a spring morn. Sansa beside him in her blue bonnet, the birds singing outside, and the word of God echoing through his head and heart — what could be lovelier? He had knelt at the humble wood altar and recited the verses that he had been set, and his voice had not shaken, and his knees had not trembled. Stannis was at peace in God and the world today.

His mind strayed churchward again as he trod the familiar path to the police station to check his mail. Soon he and Sansa would marry at that same church, and under the kindly twinkling eye of the pastor they would be joined as one forever. 

He was even cheerful enough to nod with half a smile at the boys when he got to the station — Frey and Rivers, two insolent young pups who laughed too much and worked too little. Stannis knew they were laughing at him coming in to get his messages on the Sabbath day but the law did not rest. 

“Mornin’, b’ys,” he said, as Frey handed him an envelope. “What’s this then?” 

“Have a look your ownself,” said Rivers, smirking at Frey, who smirked back. 

“You oughtn’t to be reading my mail,” Stannis began severely, but there his remonstration ended abruptly as he looked at the stiffly folded page in his hand.

 _A twelve-year-old girl Jeyne Poole is missing on Summerisle_ , it read. _Suspect the worst. Please Sgt. Baratheon come investigate soon as you can._

“This was addressed to me?” Stannis asked dumbly, not even remarking on the errors in punctuation and usage. “Not to the force? Just to me?”

“Aye,” said Frey and his grin was positively wolfish. “Seems they want you particular, Sergeant.”

Stannis frowned at the paper. There was a small photo attached of Jeyne Poole. A pretty girl in a plain sort of way, with straight brown hair and dark eyes. A sweet smile, a smatter of freckles. And missing? Away out on that far-flung island? His duty demanded it — he would not send a subordinate, he would go himself. Perhaps there was a reason — higher or earthly — he had been summoned.

“Suppose I’ll go as soon as possible, then,” he said to the two young officers. “Tell the cap’n I’ll be out tomorrow. Don’t expect to be long; in a small place like that I can likely find the lass and bring in the offenders in about two days.”

He folded the note into his jacket pocket and strode home.


	2. The Tinker of Rye

Of course, there was nothing to say duty was easy.

Sgt. Stannis Baratheon had now spent three days on this maddening, unholy isle. He had heard the name of Lady Summerisle bandied about — apparently she ran things and kept her power exclusively to herself — but had never seen the woman yet. As for Jeyne Poole, the residents of Summerisle seemed to have gone clean mad. Either they pretended she didn’t exist or answered his questions in riddles and japes. Stannis found himself goaded to the point of anger by the flippancy with which they regarded the disappearance of one of their own.

“Have they all gone mad?” he muttered to himself at the local one evening while he waited on his dinner. 

“Nay.”   

A quiet voice behind him made Stannis jump; he almost upset his lemon water. He turned quickly, instinctively defensive. No one was there but one of the gentlemen of the village — a tinker, he vaguely remembered, though the name escaped him. This man had been one of the group to meet Stannis when his seaplane landed.

“Nay, they’ve not all gone mad,” repeated the tinker. 

“Oh no?”

“I’m Davos Seaworth,” the tinker said. “I met you when you landed your contraption outside in the bay.” 

“Where have you been since then?” Stannis found it odd that the group of men had seemed to shadow him everywhere he went, but this one, now that he thought of it, had been absent. Suspicion arose in him — had Seaworth seen ought of Jeyne Poole? Been with her? 

“Oh, here and there.” Davos lowered his voice and leaned in. “They may all seem daft, but believe me, son — they are every one in their right minds.”

“ _Son_?” The word was out before Stannis could help it. 

“Aye,” grinned Davos, “though I do reckon you are just about ten years younger than myself. If I’d been a precocious lad I could’ve had you for a son, but …”

Stannis recoiled and sat stiffly. “In this Godforsaken place I’d have no doubt you could,” he said under his breath. 

The music was starting in the pub and Davos, with a friendly nod farewell, drifted away amidst it, leaving Stannis more perplexed than ever.


	3. The Landlord's Daughter

Stannis enjoyed the music for a time. It was warm in the pub and the creaky harmony of the mouth organ and the old men’s voices combined for a fairly pleasant effect, though he would have rather been home by his own fire. He awkwardly swayed along with the rollicking tune — until he started paying attention to the words the men sang, and then his jaw clenched of its own accord.

“Her lips are as roses, her wine is a treat  
Her whisky is good and her figure is neat  
And while she is serving her bitter, she's sweet  
The landlord's daughter!  
And when her name is mentioned  
The parts of every gentleman  
Do stand up at attention…”

_What?_ Stannis darted a look down the bar at the girl in question. Arianne was her name, and she didn’t seem to mind the attention — on the contrary, she was smiling indulgently. Her father patted her on the back in a proud way and Stannis grimaced and turned away again. Yes, she was lovely and the scanty thin clothes she wore could not have shown off her body better. It was enough to make Stannis uncomfortable just to look at her — she could not have been more than seventeen, he reckoned. How many men in this pub had she had? 

No, it was all an act, he decided. It must be. Arianne was not _that_ type of girl. She couldn’t be. There was something about her that was familiar and foreign at once, a bit like Sansa in her guileless sweetness, but there was something else behind that direct gaze… Stannis shook his head to clear it. It was time he was in bed. The men were still singing, the harmonica droning, but Stannis had heard enough.

Late that night he was in his hard bed, paging through his Bible — thank mercy he had brought a Bible as there was not likely one to be found on Summerisle, he thought reproachfully. Tomorrow he would get up and make all haste to Jeyne’s home once more: her mother had been, as he would have thought, daft with loss. But what Seaworth had said stuck in his mind. Were they all acting? Was the entire island — this case, even — one massive farce?

Then he heard it — the singing. And he shivered. Far from the bawdy tunes in the pub, this was something sinuous and soft, creeping under his doorway and into his very body. The song was flesh made music, and he _felt_ more than heard Arianne on the other side of the wall, crooning and cooing, inviting, beckoning. 

Stannis felt himself rise from the bed. He grabbed at the Bible, at the nightstand, but her song was irresistible — inexorable — and he was going to meet it. 

He reached the door and heard Arianne on the other side. He knew she was … that she was naked, and from the way her voice ululated through the wall he knew she was dancing. She sang of the pleasures that would await him if he came to her and he was powerless to resist. He threw himself against the door, his heart pounding, his loins aflame.

Then he stopped himself. 

_Sansa_ , he thought in desperation, and then _Jesus Christ!_ His virginal bride to be … his sacred vow … his God.

“ _No_ ,” Stannis growled. And he hauled himself sweating back to the bed — stuffing his head under the limp pillow, shoving the Bible between his heaving chest and the mattress. Arianne’s song went on, but Stannis prayed and wept and panted and prayed again. Eventually, she went to sleep, but Stannis did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The landlord's daughter is played by Britt Eklund (and a body double) in the film. Though she's [blonde and fair](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oosHMwi3mMc/UqKgVuq44QI/AAAAAAAAAgI/hQd0HoFLj7M/s1600/britt.jpg) in the movie, I thought the sexually confident [Arianne Martell](http://static2.hypable.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Arianne-Martell-888x456.jpg) was a close analogue.


	4. Maypole

The next morning found Stannis alone in the pub. He dreaded to see Arianne but of course there she was, smiling that Sphinx smile over the tray of tea and breakfast.

“I was surprised you did not come to see me last night,” she remarked casually, in the tone of someone discussing the weather. “I invited you.”

“It’s,” Stannis coughed, cleared his throat, and started over. “It’s nothing personal. I’m engaged to be married.”

“So what?” Arianne seemed supremely unconcerned as she poured his coffee.

“So — I’m saving myself for my wedding night, of course.” Certainly even godless heathens understood that, Stannis hoped. 

Arianne laughed, as though indulging the whim of a child. There was something about it that didn’t sit right — nothing sat quite right about Summerisle. He downed his breakfast and leapt up. Today, he would find Lady Summerisle — then, Jeyne Poole. Soon, he was sure, he would be done with this nonsense for good and all.

Maybe it was his lack of sleep, but the villagers seemed to be leading him on a merrier chase than usual. At half ten Stannis visited the school, where girls sat in neat rows facing a teacher who at least appeared to be akin to the schoolmarms Stannis knew. She was buttoned up, chaste — _thank God_ — and was giving a lesson in stern tones.

Stannis stood at the door listening before he made himself known.

“Now the Maypole is a tradition dating back centuries. Can anyone tell me what the Maypole represents? … Loreza?”

She nodded at a thin, dark girl in the back row. Beside Loreza was an empty desk. 

The girl squirmed.

“Loreza,” the schoolmarm scolded, “you know this. What does the Maypole represent?”

Loreza stole a glance at the doorway. She had seen Stannis, though the teacher had not. 

“It represents the phallus,” she mumbled, purple-faced, staring at her desk.

That was quite enough for Stannis. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said, striding in. “To whom does that empty desk belong?”

“Why, no one,” smiled the teacher. “It’s always been empty.”

Stannis stared at her. Then he looked at the girl. “Who sits next to you, Loreza? Was it Jeyne Poole?”

The look on Loreza’s flushed face told him everything he needed to know.

“Come with me, miss,” he commanded the teacher, “and bring your grade-book.”

Outside, he fairly snatched the book from the shocked woman. Inside, as he had foreseen, was the name of Jeyne Poole in the register, right there next to Loreza Sand.

“Why did you lie to me? … What is your name?”

The teacher sighed. “My name is Miss Selyse Florent.”

“And why did you lie? _Where is Jeyne Poole?_ ” Stannis hissed.

“You meddle in affairs you do not understand,” said Selyse, almost apologetically. She plucked the grade-book from Stannis’ hands. “I must return to my class.”


	5. Lady Summerisle

Lady Summerisle came upon him unawares, as he was watching in horror the girls perform their afternoon “lessons” — dancing nude, with a heavily pregnant and equally unclad woman, leaping over a fire and singing. The smoke smudged the view and for that Stannis was profoundly grateful.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” came a sonorous voice from a chair behind him. When had she appeared? Her butler had let him in with the presumption she was not at home and he was to wait. “They are lovely, and so innocent.”

“Lady Summerisle,” Stannis said, turning to face the speaker. He had to resist the urge to bow. The woman was majestic, tall as a man, clad all in red and with auburn hair flowing down around her heart-shaped face. 

“Sergeant Baratheon,” returned the woman, “and you may call me Melisandre.”

“Lady Summerisle will serve,” said Stannis stiffly.

She laughed musically, sparklingly — it reminded him of Arianne in the dining room — as though every woman on the island had the same kind of mechanical laugh. And her red hair was nothing like the strawberry of Sansa’s. Something about it, too, was not quite canny either. “Suit yourself, then. Have you found what you were looking for today?”

“You know very well I haven’t.” Stannis was cross. “Had I found Jeyne Poole or her assailants, I would have brought her out and the whole island would know. Starting with you, I’m quite sure.”

“What do you think has happened to the girl?” Lady Summerisle gazed at him levelly, but Stannis knew he was the object of a game.

“I think she was murdered. I think everyone on this island is mad as the March hare, but that girl deserves justice.”

“Murdered,” Lady Summerisle murmured. “And where is her body then?”

“Why are you asking me these questions? You know the answers!”

“ _You’re_ the detective,” she said, it seemed to Stannis, rather archly. “What would be the motive?”

“I’ve seen the photos,” Stannis said between clenched teeth. “She was the last Harvest Maid. And the last harvest failed. Your pagans would believe it was her fault. I’ve read the books, Lady Summerisle!” Stannis tried and failed to keep his voice from rising. “I’ve talked to your people! Mad as they are — I say again, insane, woman — not to mention godless and very likely hell-bound — they have given me the information I need. Despite your best efforts,” he added, “I have found out what I need to know. Now I just need to find the girl.”

The Lady nodded, a smile quirked along the side of her mouth. _What the Devil has she got to smile about now?_

“It appears as though you have the situation well in hand,” she said, her smile spreading into a wide, disarming grin. “I wish you all needful luck.”

Stannis opened his mouth to retort, but was stopped when the door opened. Selyse Florent, the schoolteacher, appeared at the doorway wearing — Stannis looked away, but not before seeing a long flowing skirt of pale blue, and above it, a small white waist, pointed breasts and dark nipples. He swallowed hard, staring at the photo of another ginger-haired woman above the fireplace — an ancestor of Melisandre, he had learned in the island's one library — the one who had founded this accursed colony and set it, as far as he could tell, on the path to Hell. 

“What is the meaning,” he asked, clearing his throat, “of coming here half-clothed, Miss?”

It was Lady Summerisle, of course, who answered. “This is the way my lover wishes to appear before me,” she said, as though Stannis was a wayward primary school student. “Why should she not?”

“Bloody mad,” Stannis muttered, flushing, “the lot of you.” 

He stalked out, but not before he saw Selyse sink onto a cushion at Lady Summerisle’s feet, and the women lean together to join their lips and hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a backstory mess. I might even edit it later but here it is for now ...


	6. Fire Leap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the slashy stuff, so of course it's 4x longer than any setup chapter. Welp, you get what you pay for!

Stannis went to bed frustrated and angry, angrier than he had possibly ever been in his lifetime. Everything about this island disturbed and sickened him. First he had spent the evening fruitlessly sparring with Lady Summerisle on the matter of the missing girl. He was reminded of the old “teaching a pig to sing” saw — by the end of it, he had just wasted his time and annoyed the pig. Dinner was tasteless with the old men skulking around, watching him like so many buzzards.

“Heathens,” he muttered, flinging himself down on his bed. They seemed determined to undermine him and meanwhile Jeyne Poole might be dead or starving or — or God knew what. The muttering about the May Day festival the next day had intensified. He felt as though it was his last chance to save her.

He sat back up abruptly when he heard a door latch unfasten. But it was not his — it was Arianne’s room, and she had admitted someone. Stannis listened in horror as the conversation, what there was of it, unfolded. It seemed that for the day’s final insult he would be forced to listen to the landlord’s daughter copulate with a young man — yes, there was the creak of her bed — there was the deepening of breaths, the sighs. He cursed the thin walls of the inn and buried his head once more under the pillow.

At first he dismissed the insistent knocking sound as Arianne and her lover rutting the bed into the wall, or some other thing not to be imagined. But no, it kept on, out of rhythm with the pair’s easily heard moans and screams.

“Sergeant,” a low, urgent voice called. “Let me in, as your life rests on it.”

If Stannis was not much mistaken, it was the tinker, Davos Seaworth. He stood and put his mouth to the crack of the door. “What do you want?”

“We must speak — urgently,” Davos whispered back. “Let me in.”

Stannis unlocked the door. The other man fairly tumbled into the room, flushed and troubled. 

“It’s a nice night for a visit,” Stannis said sarcastically, gesturing at the wall adjacent, “as you can hear.”

“That’s why I came now,” Davos said. “Arianne won’t be eavesdropping or spying. She does every night, you know, then reports it to her old man. And you know what happens then.”

Stannis sat down and gestured to Davos to do the same. “Right,” he said, “the Lady finds out all. Why have you come?”

Davos took a deep breath as if to collect himself.

“The ritual tomorrow,” he began.

Stannis snapped his teeth impatiently. “Yes! I know it will be the doom of that poor girl if she isn’t dead already.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a detective, Mr. Seaworth,” Stannis began.

“Please, call me Davos.”

Stannis searched the other man’s face. He was unremarkable, maybe even well-looking if he cleaned up, but overall he seemed to be the most honest person Stannis had met on this island. At least he was speaking directly.

“Davos, then,” he decided. “I did some investigating. Your fruit crop has failed.” Davos flinched at the words, but Stannis went on mercilessly. “Your pagan gods demand some kind of … of tribute. Miss Poole was the Harvest Queen this last year. She’s missing — even her family won’t speak of her — there are whispers afoot of satisfying the nature gods. I can put two and two together, Mr. Sea— Davos.” 

“You’ve nearly got it,” Davos said, nodding.

“So will you help me find her?”

“I said nearly,” Davos went on. “Now Sergeant, this is the part you won’t like to hear. Jeyne Poole, I believe, is perfectly safe. No, I haven’t seen her, but I have reason to believe she’ll come to no harm. It’s yourself who’s in danger.”

“What!”

“It’s yourself,” repeated Davos. “Lady Summerisle believes _you_ are the chosen one to slake the gods’ thirst for blood and turn the island’s fortunes round again.”

Stannis was stunned. 

“I?… How could that be? What have I to do with this accursed place? The crops failed because the science behind them was unsound — I read it in the histories in your library. Can’t she understand?”

“You cannot make her understand,” Davos persisted. “There is only one way to save your skin.”

“I must make haste,” Stannis gasped, looking wildly about his room. Panic had nearly set in — there was no time to pack, there was only time to run. To run!

“No. Listen to me.” Davos laid hold of Stannis’ arm with a tight and surprisingly warm grip. “It’s a virgin they want — do you understand me? A virgin!”

“How does she know …”

“You told Arianne,” Davos said mildly. “I told you she makes the Lady aware of everything that goes on.”

“Why _me_? Why not any one of yourselves?”

“Do not say _yourselves_ to me, Sergeant.” Davos’ face darkened. “I am not of them.”

“I beg your pardon. And Stannis will do, there’s no need for formalities in circumstances such as this. Why a police officer from outside, and not one of the islanders, someone known to be a virgin? For that matter, why not Jeyne Poole? Everything seems to lead to— Oh, my God.”

Suddenly, it was all clear. And Davos had saved his life by telling him, but to what purpose? He sat silently, horrified.

At long last, Davos spoke, nearly in a whisper. “But if by the morrow you were not …”

“I hardly see how Arianne or indeed any other woman will have me at this point,” Stannis snapped. “Not if the whole thing is a farce to lure me from the beginning.”

“That’s why I came.” Davos faced Stannis with a desperate look. “Turn me out and I’ll say no more about it — you’ll know the truth and you can do with it as you will, and possibly make good your escape, though I despair of your chances. But take me to bed tonight, and tomorrow, Lady Summerisle will have a nasty surprise.”

Stannis stood, enraged. “Man, is this some kind of joke?”

Davos, too, rose from his seat. “I thought you might say such,” he said. “I like it as little as you do. I don’t want to see you burn, lad, that’s why I came. Now that you refused Arianne, the Lady thinks she has you, and if you propose a tryst to another girl your reasons will be known. But you must do as you like.”

“Wait,” Stannis cried, almost hysterically. Mindful of Arianne in the next room he lowered his voice with an effort. “Wait.”

Davos waited.

He tried to collect himself. To fornicate with this man would be a grave sin against God, to be sure — there was nothing more certain. But knowing that it would possibly lead to his death if he did not — was that suicide? Which sin was worse, to take one’s life knowingly or to lie with a man? “What an appalling dilemma,” he said aloud. He had never thought of a man in that way. But Davos was not abhorrent — he seemed nice, in a rough, rural way … but Sansa … Sansa would never have to know, whereas if he were killed she would mourn. He had never imagined keeping the truth from Sansa.

Then he thought of Lady Summerisle and her smirk. He had never wanted anything as badly as to prove her scheme, her attempt on his life, a failure. It was a bit of the Devil that found him, he thought — but there was far more than a bit in this place.

Was Davos evil like the rest? Every one of them — Arianne, her father, Miss Selyse, Jeyne Poole’s wretched sister — they were all going to burn in Hell. But Davos?

He sighed heavily. “It is my only chance. And, as you said,” he said, trying to convince himself, “you like it as little as I.”

“That is not entirely the truth,” said Davos, smiling sadly. “On the island such relations are welcomed—”

“Speak not of it,” Stannis shook his head violently, remembering Lady Summerisle and the teacher. “Just tell me what to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This crack AU brought to you by a Christmas night viewing of The Wicker Man with Hedge_witch and TheMuteOracle. Thanks also to Shadowsfan and Sir_Bedevere. I hope to update semi-regularly.


End file.
